


Complications

by extension_cord



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Dark Humor, Dubious Consent, M/M, Mood Whiplash, Pharma is fucking insane, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sticky Sex, What Have I Done, fucking a headless body
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-03
Updated: 2013-07-03
Packaged: 2017-12-17 14:36:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/868674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/extension_cord/pseuds/extension_cord
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(Spoilers for MTMTE #18) On Luna 1, Pharma has taken Ratchet prisoner. Pharma has plans for Ratchet's body; Ratchet is not impressed in the least. Things don't end well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Complications

**Author's Note:**

> There's porn in here somewhere, if you can make it past Ratchet's sass.
> 
> Disclaimer — nothing recognizable belongs to me.

* * *

 " _Behold!_ That's right, Ratchet — _you're_ in the box!"

Once the violent shock of the reveal wore off — and, really, it didn't take long, because Ratchet had _seen a whole fragging lot_ in his lifetime — everything finally made sense: the complete absence of any sort of sensation in his extremities — the dearth of the usual ticking and whirring and venting of a functional body — the strange sweep of cold air over his spark chamber. And it was morbidly _fascinating_ to see his own body — even in its boxy, vehicular mode — not as a reflection in a mirror or a digital composite, but rather there, before him, stationary and separate. By all accounts, it was a legitimate _out-of-body experience_ , but without the spiritual rustwash that was usually attached to it.

Pharma, of course, was gloating, but Ratchet hadn't listened to a word of it: he was too busy staring at himself, wondering how the _hell_ the obviously-insane medic had pulled it off. Ratchet remembered, vaguely, the attack; he remembered the horrible grinding and gnashing of Pharma's chainsaw appendage, and he remembered the first painful blows — but he'd offlined and had stayed that way until now — and here he was, now, gaping at his own damn body. 

"You're impressed, of course," said Pharma, suddenly much nearer.

"I'm impressively disgusted," was the spat retort.

"Ah, but nonetheless, you admit you're _impressed_." The jet began to pace, hands clasped behind his back. "I wasn't so sure I could do it. These _new hands_ are capable of _great things_ , but this — this took more than the right _tools_. It required _skill_ and _know-how_ and —"

"Cut it," Ratchet hissed. He knew he really wasn't in the position to give _any_ orders, but if there was one thing that Pharma liked more than the sound of his own voice, it was the sound of _Ratchet's_ , no matter the nature of the words leaving his mouth. "Alright, alright. I'm impressed. This is — this is a pretty major medical procedure, if you can even _call_ it that — it's more of a medical _abomination_ , in my opinion — and I don't — I don't feel any pain. That's commendable, Pharma."

Again the jet edged closer, face split into a decidedly crazed grin. "For now, you don't."

_That_ was worrisome, but Ratchet tried not to show it. "Meaning?"

Pharma circled the medical slab, movements as erratic as ever. "The separation — your head and spark from your body — that was easy. I'm pleased you're impressed by it, Ratchet — really, I am — but I think you'll find _this_ far more spectacular. You see, I isolated your sensory receptors, and though you are… _disconnected_ , I can remotely _activate_ them and you will _very much_ be able to feel _everything_."

"Torture, Pharma? I could have _sworn_ you were above that."

"Who said anything about _torture?_ " The unhinged medic was now _very_ near, and it was unnerving to have the inability to do _anything_ about it. Pharma's electromagnetic field raked over Ratchet's spark chamber, and much to his disgust, the energy was charged with the promise of twisted intentions.

"Don't do this."

"Fortunately, you don't have any _say_ in the matter," Pharma whispered, mouth uncomfortably close to Ratchet's. "As a medic yourself — and I will admit, a damn good one, despite your morals — you're well-aware of the nature of sensory receptors. We have two primary types —"

Ratchet huffed with impatience. "Yeah, yeah — pain and pleasure. I _know_."

"Of course you do. For the purpose of this _demonstration_ , I've got no desire to activate your _pain_ receptors." Pharma gave Ratchet a lecherous _wink_ — and _damn_ , Ratchet could have lived the rest of his life without ever seeing _that_ — and then stepped away, plodding back toward the headless, spark-less alt-mode. "Prepare to be _fully impressed_ , Ratchet. The lives we saved at the Deltaran Medical Facility — the ingenious _plague_ I engineered — those achievements pale in comparison to what you're about to witness."

"You're insane." It was a statement of the obvious, of course, and Pharma seemed to ignore it. Ratchet could only watch with horror as the jet began to fuss with the body — _his_ body — and finally, with a subdued sound of transformation, the vehicle unfolded into its bipedal mode. If it had been strange to view his body as an _ambulance_ from a distance, this was _far_ stranger. Ratchet stared at his inert form: it sat on the medical slab, legs hanging over the edge, headless and lifeless yet still, somehow, _alive_ : vents hummed, lights glowed, inner circuitry ticked. The hands — _Pharma's hands_ — remained attached, and Ratchet found himself mildly surprised. "My body still functions, then. How?"

"Trade secret," Pharma leered, "and for our purposes today, it needs to. Don't worry, Ratchet — I won't let any _harm_ come to you." The jet sidled up beside the seated, motionless body, then ran a single digit down the chest armor. "Do you feel that?"

"No," Ratchet grated, "but you're gonna feel my _fist_ up your _afterburners_ if you don't put a stop to this _right now_."

"Such promises," Pharma cooed, then flashed his attention back to Ratchet's body. "I'm reactivating your sensory net — just the _pleasure_ receptors, as I promised. Even though you're _separated_ from your body, thanks to my _alterations_ and _improvements_ , you'll be able to feel _everything_. In addition, there are _some things_ that you simply will not be able to _control_."

The jet's words were thick with objectives unspoken, and Ratchet realized there was absolutely _nothing_ he could do about it. The situation was completely out of his hands, and for all he knew, Rodimus and Perceptor and the _rest_ of their party were dead, or held prisoner, or _worse_ , and there was _no way_ they'd get to him before — before, well, Ratchet didn't want to think about it. Pharma switched _something_ into place on the control console next to the medical slab; there was an almost inaudible _click_ and with that minute sound came a sudden wash of vague, prickling sensation. It wasn't pain — it simply _was_ — and that made Ratchet increasingly nervous.

He felt fear — revulsion — hatred — but would not feel the physical pain associated with it.

"Pharma, rethink this. _Please_." It was a final, weak appeal, and Ratchet knew that the plea was doomed to fail before the words even left his vocalizer.

A sharp laugh. " _Rethink_ this? Ratchet, I've been thinking about this for a very, _very_ long time." Pharma drew in closer to the headless body, scraping an index finger down the right thigh; the sensation that accompanied it was distant and bizarre, and it barely registered in Ratchet's processor.

It was decidedly disturbing.

And then Pharma went to work. He dragged his hands down the inert frame: digits grazed across chest armor, torso plating, and pelvic housing, at last reaching the stationary thighs, which Pharma slowly spread. Ratchet could only stare, wide-opticked, as his headless body was groped and touched in the most intimate of places — and he realized, with mounting panic and frustration, that those _caresses_ were beginning to register on his sensory net, foggily manifesting as _pleasure_ , and Ratchet _hated_ it.

"It's been a _long_ time since we last did this," Pharma hissed, digits now swiping over the body's interface port cover. The ministrations made Ratchet's spark skip, and somehow — _somehow_ — he could feel that touch, despite being separated from his frame. Even more horrifying was the fact he could _feel_ his internal workings and _damn it all_ , his separated body was _reacting_ to the attention. Ratchet _felt_ the body's plating warm beneath Pharma's touch — he _felt_ the hot lubricant pooling in the interface port — and he _felt_ the quickening whirr of his inner circuitry.

" _Pharma_ …" It was a grated warning, but the whined designation only seemed to encourage the jet further. A digit stroked against the port cover, and finally, much to Ratchet's loathing, the panel slid aside; lubricant trickled from within, collecting in a puddle on the brushed steel of the medical slab. In went one finger, then two, and the sensation was disconcerting and bizarre and — _oh._

Port walls rippled around the intrusion, internal calipers clamping down on the probing digits. Pharma thrust them in and out and hazily, Ratchet wondered how the hell the deranged medic was getting _any_ sort of satisfaction out of a largely motionless body — a frag toy, really, as much as he hated to admit it — but Pharma was insane, and at this point, Ratchet knew that nothing needed to be justified or reasonable.

The digits left his interface port; there was a whirr and then the high-frequency buzz of _something_ — and Ratchet realized, with mounting dismay, that one of Pharma's hands had turned into — _oh, hell._

"Like I said, Ratchet, these new hands of mine are really something else." Gracing the end of the jet's left arm was not a hand or a chainsaw or some sort of delicate, specialized medical equipment — it was a rod, and it was _vibrating_ , and Ratchet wanted nothing more than to shove the damn thing down Pharma's throat. Unfortunately for Ratchet, the appendage was instead shoved into the port of his headless body.

And, frag everything, it felt pretty damn good. Not that Ratchet's sensory net had a choice; if it did hurt, he didn't know, and as the buzz of the rod vibrated against his sensitive internal walls, Ratchet couldn't keep a moan from escaping his lips. Mentally, he cursed, and between the waves of unwanted pleasure and seething hatred, Ratchet managed to hiss, "Your hands — are still — _stupid_."

"You _say_ that," Pharma muttered, glancing to Ratchet's head, "but your body begs to differ."

"I beg to differ about — about a whole — _lot_ — right nuh-now," Ratchet retorted, his voice hoarse and stilted. "You are st-stupid — and your _hands_ — are stupid."

There was a final pulse from the vibrating rod, and Ratchet was positive that, had his pain receptors been online, it would have hurt. Pharma withdrew the lubricant-coated appendage and with a sharp whirr his hand returned to its customary shape. "As always, you're not easily pleased. Good thing this isn't about _you_." Pharma eased the upper half of the body down, repositioning the back against the medical slab; the legs still hung over the edge of the surface and now the jet hiked them up against his shoulder vents, the grip of his hands tight against already-dented thighs.

With a nearly soundless _snickt_ , Ratchet heard Pharma's interface paneling slide away. He'd been _waiting_ for this — not _wanting_ it, of course, but Ratchet was expecting it — and a moment later, he felt the jet's spike plunge into his body's port. There was no pain, only pleasure, and Ratchet _despised_ that. He felt the slick friction as Pharma's equipment was drawn out then thrust in: the spike pushed against sensitive nodes and too-tight calipers, leaving his port then slamming back into it.

Ratchet had seen and experienced many misfortunes in his life — a war that dragged on for four million years had the tendency to do that — but this was a definite first: watching his own, headless body being fraggedthrough a medical slab, at the hands of his former comrade, and somehow, by some medical miracle or abomination, feeling every resulting twinge of pleasure.

Another thrust — another burst of horrible, blissful feeling — another escaped moan. Pharma seemed to revel in the sound. "I've been waiting _eons_ to do this, Ratchet. You have _no_ idea."

Ratchet felt his lips twist into a strange, joyless smirk. "Really? For something — you've been ah-anticipating for so long, your — performance is _incredibly —_ lacking."

"Shut up," Pharma growled, and he picked up his pace, slamming himself into Ratchet's body, the metal of his pelvic housing clanging and grinding against that beneath him.

But Ratchet had no intention of shutting up. He'd been reduced to little more than his head and spark, but he was well-aware that one of his greatest weapons was his wit, and even in so dire and disgusting a situation, Ratchet was not about to abandon _that_. "And those — those _fuh-fantasies_ , Pharma — did they — _nngh!_ — include the _headless_ part?"

"I said _shut up!_ "

"Or — or maybe it was the part where — _ah!_ — where there was _zero reciprocation_ — and I just — luh-laid there like a _drone._ "

Pharma's wings fluttered with indignation. "Ratchet — for the love of _Primus_ —"

"Oh! So now _Primus_ is — involved?" A low moan, and then Ratchet heard himself laugh. "Pharma, it's official — you are _truly_ off your rocker."

The jet's only retort was a wordless growl. He pistoned his hips into the body below him, fingers grasping thighs so tightly that his grip rent the metal — and Ratchet could _feel_ the crazed frustration and lust emanating from Pharma's electromagnetic field, and it was both hilariously horrible and horribly hilarious. Ratchet was no longer interested in buying himself time for an unlikely rescue, and really, the most degrading act — the separation of his head and spark from the rest of his body — had already been committed.

He couldn't stop himself from provoking Pharma further.

"Is that _really_ — all — you've _got?!_ "

With an infuriated snarl, Pharma drove himself deep into Ratchet's body — once, twice, a third time — Ratchet felt the base of the jet's spike plow against the sensitive rim of his port, but the pain didn't register — another thrust, and the pace became erratic and bruising and _finally_ , with a last guttural hiss, Pharma hit overload. His grip on the body's thighs tightened like a vice and Ratchet felt the hot rush of transfluid spray into him.

Silence descended upon the makeshift medibay, and they were left with the wheeze and whine of overtaxed fans. Ratchet hadn't overloaded, not yet; Pharma, as much as he liked to boast, was an absolutely _terrible_ frag, and Ratchet's current situation of being technically-separated-from-his-body-but-not-really didn't exactly lend itself well to this sort of thing, at least not on _his_ end of the deal. Being forcefully fragged by Pharma was bad enough, and Ratchet sure as hell didn't want to overload as a result of the insane jet's ministrations.

Another moment passed — Pharma reined control over his shuddering frame — and at last he pulled out of Ratchet's still-hot, still-leaking port. "I have an idea," the jet murmured, and he trailed a digit over the body's pelvic plating, activating the manual release for the panel protecting its spike.

Ratchet watched with abject horror as it pressurized to its full length; Pharma seemed to give the spike an appraising look, then sauntered back to the slab where Ratchet's head and spark chamber were still fastened into place. The jet fiddled with the metal frame, hastily dismounting Ratchet's head from the surface, and — _oh, no_. Ratchet did _not_ like where this was going. He was lifted from the slab, and now he was close — incredibly close —  to his own body and the gleaming, erect spike. "Pharma, _what —_ "

"You're insufferably chatty today," Pharma hissed. "Let's make this _truly_ interesting, Ratchet, and put that talented mouth of yours to _work_."

* * *

 

_Fin._

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!!


End file.
